


Deliverance

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3313772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, hurt/comfort, implied non-con (not graphic)<br/>Disclaimer - I did not invent and am not profiting from these characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just A Fragment

It's just a fragment, a few lines hidden among hundreds of pages of recent CIA surveillance.

So many of their tapes are either never transcribed, or the computer program that does so produces gibberish.

Red has been missing for three weeks. Dembe has called her nightly. He tells her that Red left him an atypical, one sentence message on his phone.

"Called away on business - I'll be back soon."

His voice sounded strained. Dembe has not been able to locate him since. He doesn't trust that this isn't another government abduction. In their private vernacular, soon is not one week, let alone three.

So Liz is doing what she can - digging through the resources Meera's co-workers and associates offer her in Meera's memory.

They know it was Reddington who tried to warn the FBI, the night she died.

'A brothel in Nairobi?'

Liz traces the words on her computer screen with her forefinger as if to be sure she's reading them correctly.

She has several weeks of vacation leave accumulated. More than enough frequent flier miles. Even if Red's jet has cut down her accumulation of said miles, recently.

Harold Cooper has been implementing some new, bureau-mandated training courses for the Post Office staff. There has been much discontent. However, Liz completed her courses as soon as they were assigned to her, without comment.

Cooper signs her request to take leave, without argument.

She told him three weeks ago that Red is away on private business. She doesn't correct that impression. Whatever Red might be doing in a brothel, Liz has no plans to involve the FBI.

The thought of it knots her sore stomach, already aching with tension from the amount of time she's been spending at the gym.

There's one seat left on a flight leaving in the morning. Liz buys her tickets online, packs a small bag.

She can buy more clothes once she arrives in Kenya.

***

It's ten o'clock when her phone rings. She's in her blue flannel pajamas, reading online travel guides in bed on her laptop.

"Elizabeth. Have you heard anything further?"

It's Dembe. She hasn't decided whether to tell him or not.

"No." She takes a breath. 

"What are you planning?" he asks.

How can he know that she's planning something? 

"Elizabeth, if you know anything...?"

She can't just disappear. Dembe would worry about her in that case, as well.

"I have a possible lead, but I don't want to tell you about it," she says, finally. "Not yet. Not until I've checked it out myself."

She can hear him breathing on the other end of the phone.

"Please, Dembe, I think it may be something private."

"That Raymond would want you to know about?"

Liz winces at the edge to his voice. No, of course not. But there are so many things Red doesn't want to tell her, doesn't want her to know.

"Please don't worry," she says firmly. 

"You will call or text me, once you know he is safe?"

Liz removes the phone from her ear and stares at it for a moment. What world does Dembe live in, that he would have to ask?

"Yes, of course."

"Here are my numbers for the next week."

Dembe provides her with a string of phone numbers. She types them into her laptop. She'll memorize them later.

"Be careful, Elizabeth, and be safe."

"You too, Dembe."

He hangs up. He never says good-bye.

Come to think of it, neither does Red. 

'Telephone habits of international criminals.' Wouldn't that make an interesting paper?

Liz returns to her travel guides. She doesn't have time to write research papers, let alone edit and publish them, at this point in her career. But someday? She's going to make herself famous.

***

As the plane touches down at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Liz congratulates herself on having made good decisions so far. The upgrade to first class was completely worth it, for such long flights. And her decision not to check luggage has ensured that her clothing is not stuck back in Amsterdam, where due to weather-related delays, she almost missed her connection despite sprinting through the airport.

She's refused the free drinks in favor of sparkling water, and even managed to sleep at the right times.

"Miss Keen?"

She approaches the khaki clad man holding a sign labeled 'Keen' with relief. She hired the 4x4 with driver through a car rental website.

"Yes, that's me."

He looks around. "No baggage?"

She shakes her head.

"And you are?"

"I am Kanja, miss."

"Good to meet you, Kanja."

He gestures for her to follow him. 

The car is a silver Mitsubishi Pajero. Liz nods in approval.

She hops in front with Kanja, setting her bag at her feet.

"Which hotel, please, miss?"

"I need to do some shopping first," she says. "Please take me to the Jamia Mall."

"Of course."

Liz leans back and closes her eyes for a moment. Her plan hinges on accessing an old CIA cache next. She's not going after Red without a weapon.

For the flight, she chose an older suit that hangs loosely on her small frame. She needs lighter weight clothing now, a vest with pockets. Fortunately, hunting gear appears to be a popular style here.

Of course, this could be easy.

Red may spot her first, get in some sort of communication. If so, she has a wonderful safari already picked out for the remainder of her stay. Game viewing and photography, not hunting. She's on their standby list already.

But she's not counting on it.


	2. Resources

The locks on the small storefront open to her keys. Her fingers dance over the alarm pad on the wall just inside the metal door, entering the code barely in time. Closing the door behind her, Liz pulls on her headlamp in utter darkness and flicks it on.

She's standing inside a narrow, dusty jewelry store, surrounded by empty glass cases. The cache is behind the safe in the office.

It's completely silent. The CIA must have invested in some expensive soundproofing.

Liz picks up her shopping bags and heads for the back of the store. Besides the headlamp, she's purchased safari clothes, a multi-tool, two knives, and various other potentially useful items, as well as a large tan duffel bag with a waterproof inner liner.

She's definitely going to be checking bags on the flight home.

The small office contains a metal desk and two chairs. The large safe in the back wall is old. She gives the worn metal dial a gentle pat. She learned safe-cracking on a very similar model.

But what she needs is behind the safe, not inside of it.

Even knowing where the switches are located, and the sequence, it takes her a few minutes before the safe slides forward, exposing a narrow gap into a dark space behind it.

Liz waits the minimum 120 seconds, then counts it down again.

CIA booby traps are notoriously messy.

The dark space proves to be mostly drawers and cabinets filled with weapons, ammunition, and explosives. She makes her choices carefully, loading the duffel bag with alternating layers of clothing and weaponry.

There's a back exit from the store but it runs along a service corridor.

Liz departs the way she came, into the narrow, empty hallway. Locks up behind her.

Kanja leaps from the car as soon as he spots her, loads her duffel and handful of shopping bags carefully into the back of the Pajero.

"Where to next, please?" he asks her.

"Karengata," she returns, pulling out her phone. "I'm visiting an old friend. Let me find her address for you."

He whistles. 

"Very good, miss."

Kanja seems ever more cheerful. He must be expecting a big tip by now.

***

"Yes?" 

The pink-uniformed maid smiles at Liz but doesn't open the door all the way.

"Just tell her it's Sam's daughter Elizabeth."

Liz scans the lush garden as she waits. Palms cluster near the house, and bright bougainvillea spills over a low wall at the edge of a perfect emerald lawn. The homes in Langata that she's glimpsed from the car window are large and lovely.

The door opens and the maid smiles even more widely. 

"Come right in, please," she says.

Liz gives Kanja a wave and enters the cool of the house. It's much larger than it appears from the outside, gleaming tile extending in all directions.

"This way, please."

The maid leads her down a wide hall to the back of the house. It's a sun room, all glass and green metal, with flowered chintz sofas and glass-topped wicker tables.

A small woman with soft white hair pinned into braids across the top of her head rises gracefully from her seat with an exclamation of pleasure.

"It really is you!"

She clasps Liz's hands warmly, presents her cheek for a kiss.

"Auntie Meg! I'm so glad you you are at home."

"Elizabeth, you should have called to let me know you were coming."

They seat themselves and the maid bustles away to fetch a fresh pot of tea.

The last time Liz spoke to Margaret Hemford was to inform her of Sam's death. Meg and Sam had only been an item for a few months when Liz started calling her Auntie, and the name stuck even when the connection dissipated into friendship, and then further distance once she moved to Kenya.

"It was kind of an impulse trip," Liz confesses.

"Are you still with the FBI?"

"Yes, but I'm not here on business." She pauses. "I'm looking for a friend. Rather privately."

"A man." The older woman nods wisely.

"Well, yes."

Liz meets her eyes and feels slightly foolish about her caution. She can trust Auntie Meg.

"He's just a friend," Liz asserts. Well, Red is obviously something more than that, but she's not about to explain his on again, off again immunity deal.

"But you'd like him to be more?" the older woman probes.

Liz blinks.

"Ah.." she begins, flummoxed by the speed with which her mind has returned an unexpected answer to that question, a question no one she trusts has asked her before.

It's one thing to tell the curious that she has no idea why Red is obsessed with her. If he has any romantic feelings for her at all, they are certainly not on display. On good days she feels like some sort of protege; on bad ones, like a poorly constructed puppet.

But her own feelings?

She's in Kenya, armed to the teeth, just because Dembe is worried.

"Maybe," she admits finally. "But it's complicated."

"Better complicated than too simple," the older woman returns dryly.

Auntie Meg was never more than polite to Tom Keen, no matter how much he attempted to charm her.

She was a second-story man back in the States, one of the best. Deep in Sam's confidence, even more so once they were just old friends.

"So tell me about him, why don't you?"

The tea tray arrives, delicate bone china and an array of little cakes, providing a welcome opportunity for Liz to clear her thoughts.

Once the maid leaves, she meets Auntie Meg's eyes with a sigh.

"It's hard to explain. He's older, he's very wealthy, he doesn't really seem interested in me that way..."

Auntie Meg frowns.

How to paint a picture without being too explicit? Even retired as she is, Auntie Meg surely knows enough to recognize the Concierge of Crime if Liz describes his appearance.

Liz takes a sip of her tea, thinking hard.

"Why do you like him so much?" the older woman prompts her.

Liz shakes her head.

"It's not that I like him, I lo...."

She breaks off, blushing again. 

"He's just.. important to me. And I hurt, when he hurts."

His battered wreck of a body, scarred by bullets and knives, fire and torture. She arranged to have his booking photos destroyed, made it look like an accident. Numbers on a log of files to be shredded, unfortunately transposed.

But those graphic images are still burned into her brain. For all that's she's seen no more of him in the flesh than his forearms, his bare feet, that tempting triangle of exposed skin when his dress shirt is unbuttoned.

"You'll find him" says Auntie Meg in a reassuring voice. 'What leads do you have so far?"

"Just the name of a brothel," Liz admits. "Eastern Sky."

Auntie Meg frowns.

"You know it?" Liz asks, setting down her cup.

"It used to belong to a very dangerous criminal. Not a place you would want to have anything to do with, in the past. Very expensive, only adult prostitutes, trained to satisfy very particular tastes. Eastern Sky catered to an international clientele, not locals, for the most part."

Liz shrugs. It's a waste of time to try and convince someone who's known you since you were six years old, and afraid of spiders, that you aren't afraid of dangerous criminals.

"And now?"

"Now there are rumors it has changed hands, become just one more hub of child prostitution and run of the mill misery."

"Do you know anyone who could introduce me to the new owner?"

Auntie Meg laughs indulgently.

"I'm retired, Elizabeth. Golfing and the garden society are more my social circles, these days."

She didn't say no.

"May I stay with you, Auntie Meg? At least for a day or two?"

The older woman beams.

"My dear, I'd be delighted. I'm just rattling around in this big place when my granddaughters are away."

She has three granddaughters that she's raised since the deaths of her son and his wife, all living in England for college.

"And my driver Kanja?"

Auntie Meg shakes her head.

"He's welcome to stay, but I think you will find that he would prefer to return home."

She gives Liz a wink.

"He can make good money with your vehicle, when you're not using it."

Liz grins back.

"Far be it from me to obstruct his illicit activities," she returns. "Criminals need to stick together."

It's been a long time since Liz has spoken those words. Perhaps too long.


	3. Suffering

He's returned to Nairobi to discover that his local agent has betrayed him, and the brothel he once owned is no longer offering only the services of adult men and women.

Children, even very young children, are now for sale within the once formal, elegantly decorated rooms.

Armando Mendez, the two-bit thug sitting behind the huge mahogany desk, brandishing a rusty pistol that desperately wants cleaning, may call himself the new owner, but he's not long for this world.

Red would have come across the desk at him, despite his bound wrists, except that there are several other men wielding extremely sharp machetes standing around, staring at him.

He's seen men killed with machetes. It's not a fate he intends to share.

"For the price on my head, you can buy half the brothels in this city," Red comments in his most acerbic voice.

Armando shakes his head, gestures in the air with the revolver.

"My little brother, what he suffered?" he declaims in his heavily accented English. "No money can make up for that. Only your suffering can do that, for me, and for our family."

Red shrugs.

"I certainly understand revenge," he responds. "What sort of suffering exactly are we talking about here?"

"Your business, your Eastern Sky, you put my houses out of the business. Too much international attention." 

Red watches as Armando slaps the desktop with his left palm.

"So our family's investment was lost, and with it, the money of a certain powerful investor."

Armando leans forward.

"He took my little brother Lucio to work for him, in payment for that loss. In one of his other brothels, in Eastleigh. He sold Lucio to foreigners, over and over again, until he judged that our debt was repaid.""

Red holds his face still with an effort.

"And you hold me responsible because my business was more successful than yours?"

Armando slaps the table again.

"Everything Lucio suffered, you will suffer as well."

Red shakes his head.

"To the right people, I'm worth millions," he repeats. "And I'm not exactly the the right age or sex to earn much for you in the industry."

Armando laughs.

"What do I care about money? All I want is you, suffering."

Red leans forward his chair.

"How much money, how many clients are we talking about here?" he asks sharply. "Because we may as well get started. I have pressing business in Lima, when this is over."

Armando glares at him.

Red raises his brows, shrugs as if prostituting himself is just another unappealing but necessary duty that he's willing to put behind him.

Information. He can't negotiate without information.

"It's never going to be over," Armando informs him, gesturing towards one of the men with machetes. "Lucio died of his injuries, and so will you."

Red barely turns his head in time to see the blow coming that knocks him unconscious.

***  
Liz sleeps soundly in her comfortable suite at Auntie Meg's, appreciating the finely woven sheets, the silk blankets and the original oils on the walls.

The next morning Kanja drives her to the office of one of Auntie Meg's friends.

He's an attorney, dark-skinned, white-haired, sharp-eyed, and very discouraging.

"This man, he is unstable," the attorney insists. "Not the place to go, even for the type of women you are seeking."

Liz uncrosses and recrosses her legs, allowing his eyes to enjoy the fishnets that contrast sharply with her dressy pleated black linen jacket and short, matching skirt.

Her spike-heeled Louboutins have drawn his attention as well.

"I go where I need to go, when I'm hiring," she drawls. "You don't need to be present. Just set up the meeting."

The attorney shrugs.

"I will contact Mr. Mendez. Convey your very generous offer."

Liz stands, arches her back just a little, leans over the desk and runs one finger along the line of the attorney's top lip.

"Tomorrow," she purrs. "Or I'll move on to Mombasa."

She drops an envelope stuffed with cash on his desk, leaves before he reaches for it.

***

The next day is worse.

Red awakens with a splitting headache to find himself chained to a metal bed frame. His head is completely covered by a leather hood that's locked in place at the back of his neck, with only an opening for his mouth. He can't breathe through his nose at all, can't see even a sliver of light.

He's not wearing anything at all, and by feeling around at the length of his chains, he ascertains that there are no clothes or bedding to cover himself within reach.

There's a plastic bottle of water beside the bed, and a foul-smelling bucket beneath it.

Wonderful.

Red feels the side of his neck beneath the edge of the hood. The chip is undisturbed.

That means this room, or even the whole building, is probably shielded in some way.

His first task is therefore to get out of this room. He can't reach the walls or the door. The bed frame is chained to a pipe that emerges from beneath the cement floor. 

This is very bad. The hood means Armando has the sense not to advertise the identity of his prisoner.

Red can count on his fingers the number of people who have seen him unclothed in the last ten years. Who could recognize him in this condition.

Not including the FBI, of course.

But he told Dembe he was called away on business, a message that has surely been passed on to the task force by now.

He may never see Lizzie again.

Red spares a brief thought for the aches and bruises he can feel. Nothing unusual, just the pain that comes with being dragged about unconscious. Nothing to indicate he's been sold to a customer yet.

Before long, his dearest hope may be that he dies before he encounters Elizabeth Keen again.


	4. A Plan

Kanja is less than happy when informed that he needs to drive Liz around the following night, somewhat mollified by the double wages she offers him.

They visit several shopping malls, hardware stores, and twice, small unmarked businesses recommended by Auntie Meg.

The backseat is loaded with packages by the time they arrive at the suburban storage facility she's chosen for the assembly. She pulls the metal door open, flips on the light switch. Winces as insects begin to swoop in.

"Come back at midnight," she instructs Kanja, after he's carried the bags and boxes into the bare, well-lit space.

He gives her a concerned look.

"I'm preparing a surprise for my friend," she informs him.

"OK, miss," he responds, and drives slowly away.

Sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, Liz pulls tools from one bag and a Kevlar vest from another, and gets to work.

***

At two in the morning, newly purchased backpack loaded full, she leaves Auntie Meg's house on the back of a motorcycle, clinging to the waist of a retired munitions expert named Peter, a former colonel in the British army. They're both dressed in black, and she's nervous. This is the most delicate part of her plan. The charges need to be placed perfectly.

***

"I'm here to see Armando Mendez."

The two guards at the side door Liz was instructed to use look her up and down. She's wearing white spike heels, and a dress so short it can't be seen beneath her huge, fluffy white marabou jacket.

Her hair is lacquered into curls and loops, with one perfectly placed white bow. Her make-up is flawless.

Liz shifts from one foot to the other.

"Ready to frisk me, boys?" she asks, stepping between them into the hallway.

As they turn towards her, she kicks the door closed and tasers them both. They fall to the floor, twitching. She drops the spent tasers to the floor.

"No? Then I'll just go on to my appointment," she informs them.

Liz blows them a kiss and proceeds nonchalantly on up the hall. If there are hidden cameras watching, she doesn't spot any. The carpet beneath her feet is stained and torn. From somewhere deep inside the building she can hear voices, and music, and a child sobbing.

At the wide double doors that lead to the office of Eastern Sky, Liz smiles at two more guards.

"Is Armando inside?" she asks the taller of the two men. He nods.

"Open your coat," the other man instructs her.

"Sure, honey," she drawls. She opens the front just enough to reveal the vest, the explosives sewn around it, the makeshift spill trigger in the very center. If she falls, the vest will detonate.

"I need some very specific information from Mr. Mendez," she informs them. "If I get it, I'm gone. No harm done."

She shrugs. Gestures with the manual trigger in her right hand.

"If I don't get it, you're all gone too."

The guards glare at her and open both of the double doors, ushering her into a once beautiful room. It is dominated by a huge, scarred mahogany desk, with a man smoking a cigar sitting behind it.

"Suicide vest," one of the men advises him, as he rises, one hand going to a bloody machete lying on the desktop in front of him.

"Hello, Armando," Liz greets him, allowing the fluffy coat to fall just a little further open. "Please excuse the precautions, but I'm only here for my own business, not yours."

"I was told you were looking for girls," he growls in a thickly accented voice, sitting back down. Ignoring the vest. He gestures for the guards to leave them.

There's a very final sounding slam as the doors close behind them.

"Women," she responds. "Women with very particular training. Eastern Sky used to be a preferred source for me."

Armando shrugs.

"That's not our business any more. But I suppose I may have a few of the old staff lying around."

He chuckles a little at his own joke, gestures at the seat in front of him.

"Sit, sit, girl. I understand you have money to burn. Perhaps money to invest?"

Liz takes a seat and looks with disdain around the room.

"The former owner wanted me to invest," she informs him. "I have a score to settle with him. If he's still alive."

She looks around again, taking in the marks on the carved, paneled walls. Bullets, blood, random scrapes and cigar burns. Just like the desk.

Meets Amando's eyes with a wide, predatory smile.

"But unfortunately, I hear he's dead. So I'll never get my revenge."

She leans towards Armando.

"You'll have to get me hard numbers on the investment, let my people do their research."

Armando relights his cigar, puffs on it slowly.

"You didn't come here just for girls."

Liz shakes her head. Oh god, it's working. 

"I want that bastard Raymond Reddington. If anyone knows where he is, it's got to be you."

"And if I know something, why would I tell you?" he asks her. "You just want to get close enough to him to blow that vest." He points with his cigar.

Liz shakes her head again, feeling the elaborate arrangement of curls on her head bouncing.

"Oh no. Give me two minutes alone with him, and you'll see."

Armando frowns.

"And if I don't yield to your little power play?"

Liz shrugs.

"I may leave and send in some people another time. Or I may just blow the vest and the hell with this place."

Their eyes meet. She bats her long, fake eyelashes at him.

"Understand me, Armando. If there's even a scrap of Reddington left for me to torture, I'm going to find it."

"And what about what I want?" he asks, turning his cigar and looking at the lighted tip. "Assuming I do know something?"

"You want him gone," she asserts with confidence. "You don't want his people to ever realize that you have his blood on your hands."

He chuckles, a little hollowly.

"International manhunt doesn't cover it. At the very least, you'd never be able to return to Kenya again."

Armando shrugs.

"Is he alive or dead?" she asks him, standing and raising the trigger in her hand. 

His hand twitches on the machete, then unexpectedly, he laughs.

"Come and see for yourself."

He strides to the door, opens it, and calls for his men.

She's in.


	5. Found

The two armed guards wait outside the unmarked door near the back of Eastern Sky.

Down a short flight of concrete stairs, there's a long, dim hall. Metal doors with high, narrow windows on either side. The hall looks clean, but it smells filthy.

Liz raises one brow.

"Have a look," Armando gestures down the hall with his cigar.

Liz peers in the first window on the left. A plump naked man in a black leather hood is seated on the edge of a stained mattress on a metal bed frame. One ankle is chained to a pipe in the center of the floor. His head hangs low. He does not appear to notice her scrutiny.

Liz steps back, shakes her head.

"Not him."

Armando laughs.

"No, not him," he agrees. He points two doors down, on the left. "Try that one, girl."

Liz minces past him on her spike heels, shrugs one shoulder before peering inside at an identical room.

Another naked man in a hood, this time sitting on the far side of the bed. A man with burn scars covering his back.

Liz bares her teeth. Lets out a low whistle.

"Armando, I think I am very close to investing," she says.

He holds up a key. It's one of many, on a ring with a leather fob.

"There's a tattoo." Liz points to her chest, above her heart.

Armando smiles widely.

"You know him quite well, don't you?" he responds, his voice thick with innuendo.

Liz brings Tom Keen to the forefront of her mind, and smiles a bitter smile at Armando.

"Let's just say, things didn't go the way I expected them to go."

She switches the trigger from her right hand to her left, turns her wrist up momentarily to reveal her scar.

"Too deep for plastic surgery."

Armando chuckles.

"Care to replicate it?" he asks her, lifting his machete.

"Perhaps you could do that for me?" she counters in a deliberately suggestive tone. "That's such a large machete."

He laughs, unlocks the door, then shoves the keys back into his pocket.

Walks toward the bed.

"Stand up and hold out your right hand," Armando orders. He's standing between her and the bed.

As Liz watches from the doorway, the seated figure stands and then turns. After glancing at the small Academy tattoo on his chest, she avoids looking at his battered body, focuses on the shaking palm he holds out, fingers curled inwards as if to protect his torn and broken fingernails.

"Do you have another guest for me, Armando?" Red's low voice is hoarse.

Liz answers.

"Raymond Reddington," she responds, her voice poisonous with satisfaction. "Do you remember who I am?"

His hooded head drops, his whip-scarred shoulders slump.

"The very last person I want to see?"

She'd know that voice anywhere. It's really him.

Without answering, Liz tasers Armando as he turns to Red, machete rising. Digs the keys out his pocket, crouches to unlock Red's ankle chain.

Red is standing very still, head cocked as if he's trying to listen through the thick leather of the hood.

"Hold still Red, I'm going to get this off you," she informs him, before stepping over Armando's twitching form and quickly comparing keys to the heavy lock on the back of the hood. The leather straps are reinforced with steel mesh - she can't just slice them off. None of the keys fit.

"Sorry - we have to go," Liz says. "I know your fingers must hurt, but hold this for a second?"

She pushes a pistol into his right hand, steadies his wrist. Guides the pistol to Armando's forehead.

"Armando is yours," she whispers. Red shoots three times before she tugs on his wrist.

"Done. Time to go."

She sets off the first of several explosions using the trigger in her hand. The building above them shudders.

"Do you have clothing for me?" Red asks her.

She doesn't. She never expected to find him like this.

Liz slips out of her maribou jacket, pulls his arms through the sleeves.

"What is this?" he questions, his fingers touching the loose, fluffy softness of the jacket.

Liz reaches for his right wrist, lifts his right hand to the center of her back, feels his fingers close gingerly around her tactical belt.

"Do not let go," she tells him. "We're going upstairs, left, right, left through some halls, and then out a large hole in the wall."

He follows her without further comment, stumbling over Armando's body as they exit the cell, his bare feet leaving bloody footprints as they make their way back to the stairs.

"There are guards at the top - hang on and stay behind me," Liz orders Red. His grip on her waist tightens, the belt cutting into her stomach.

They ascend slowly. At the top of the stairs the door is locked.

Liz pounds on the door. 

"Come help me! The prisoner has Armando! Help!"

The door unlocks and Liz shoots the guard, steps into the hallway and then pauses as the other guard backs away, hands raised in surrender. She gestures with the gun and he turns and runs.

Liz triggers the second set of explosions. Almost immediately, screams and shouts can be heard.

Left, right, left. Her timing is a little off but not impossibly bad.

She reaches the back wall of the building. There's a huge hole, a crowd of gawkers forming on the street outside.

No guards. She thought there would be more guards. She blows the third charge, steps out into the street with Red shuffling behind her amid a cloud of paper money.

The crowd dissolves into men, women and children screaming and grabbing for the floating bills as thick smoke rolls from the base of the building. Eastern Sky is burning.

Good thing there was so much money in that CIA cache.

Half a block away, Liz stops at the motorcycle she borrowed from Peter. Tucks the trigger in her pocket, then finally disconnects the spill trigger on her vest.

"Let go of my belt," she orders Red. "Grab onto the seat of the bike on your right, but let me get on first."

He reaches out, clutches the narrow leather motorcycle seat. Begins to shudder. She winces in sympathy. Sitting astride is going to hurt. But it can't be helped.

Liz climbs on the motorcycle and gets it started, kicks it off the stand.

"Hop on, and hang on tight," she shouts at Red over the roar of the engine. It takes him several tries, but finally he's sitting behind her, loosely holding her waist. She looks down on either side to be sure his bare feet are firmly on the pegs.

Liz guns the bike and they're off.

***

Red hangs on, trying to avoid nausea as the motorcycle swoops and jounces through the streets of Nairobi. Several times the pain is so excruciating he almost blacks out, but he struggles to hang onto consciousness. If he falls off Liz will probably dump the bike. They could both be hurt or even killed.

At least no one who sees them is likely to believe he's the Concierge of Crime. Wearing nothing but a hood and a woman's feather coat he probably looks like a kinkster's dream.

Where is she taking him? Who is going to see him like this? Know what has been done to him?

He doesn't know if Dembe or the FBI would be worse. And he's not sure he'll ever be able to look Elizabeth Keen in the eyes again.


	6. Flight

Liz is exhausted, adrenaline still pulsing through her veins as they approach the small, private airstrip. As promised, Auntie Meg's small plane stands ready.

Auntie Meg is dressed in khakis, leaning against the small metal hanger, talking to Peter with their heads close together. Her white hair is in one thick braid down her back, today.

Liz pulls to a stop close to the plane. They both hurry over.

"We need to get out of here. It got a little messy."

Peter waves his cell phone at her.

"I saw the photos online. You burned down Eastern Star?"

Liz gives him a fierce smile. 

"Thank you so much Peter, the bike was invaluable."

She hands him the keys, then helps Red to clamber off the motorcycle.

"He your prisoner?" Peter ask her in a casual tone.

Liz and Auntie Meg shake their heads simultaneously.

"There's a small plane," Liz says to Red, taking his arm and urging him to climb up into the cabin.

She glances back to see Auntie Meg give Peter a hug and a rather extended kiss.

Dembe. Liz pulls out a burner phone, quickly texts him that Red is fine. That she'll call when she has better cell service.

Auntie Meg gives Peter a wave as he speeds away on the motorcycle.

"You have my bags?" she asks, as she climbs up to take a seat beside Red.

"In the back," responds Auntie Meg. She climbs into the cockpit, gets the plane going.

"There are some blankets back there as well," she calls over her shoulder as she runs through her pre-flight checks.

Liz turns and reaches into the smaller of her duffel bags, finds her lock picks. Then she pulls a folded green wool blanket from the stack of blankets and jackets at the very back of the plane, and wraps it carefully over Red's shoulders.

She pats his arm.

"Lean forward, I'm going to get that hood off you."

She pulls the blanket around him as he leans over, resting his elbows on his bare thighs, head bowed.

She begins working on the lock at the back of the hood as the small plane takes off, banks sharply, and turns north.

"So Liz? Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" Auntie Meg asks.

Red's tight shoulders slacken almost imperceptibly at the sound of her voice. If Liz weren't concentrating on him so hard as she tries to get the lock picks into place, she would have missed that.

"Margaret Hemford, I presume?" Red drawls.

"Ray? Is that you?"

Auntie Meg glances back over her shoulder for a moment.

"Wait, you two know each other?" Liz asks.

"We were ... business associates .. for a time," says Red. His voice is still hoarse.

Liz stops working on the lock long enough to turn and dig a bottle of water from her larger duffel bag.

"Here, it's just water," she tells him. He takes the bottle and sips, then bends his head obediently again.

The lock finally slips open.

Liz gently removes the hood. The base of the hood has dug a crusted, bloody line around Red's neck. She has to tug to pull it free. Just below it, bite marks alternate with cigarette burns.

Red looks down at the floorboard of the plane.

His stubbled face is grimy with dried blood, salt, and mucus.

Liz tucks the green blanket tighter about him.

"Three hours or less," she informs him. "Then we'll be safe."

***

The plane circles in over a private landing strip, sets down lightly, and bumps to a stop just before sunset. The sky is brilliant with streaks of red, orange and purple.

No lights visible save the emerging stars.

Auntie Meg hands Liz a keyring.

"Take the suite on the right," she advises her. "I'll be a little while, with the plane."

Liz touches Red's arm. He's been dozing in his seat beside her on and off, head hanging.

"Just a little further."

Liz hoists her bags over one shoulder, leads the way. Red limps on his battered feet clutching the blanket around him. From behind her, she hears the hum of a generator powering up.

As she reaches the low, wide screen porch of the cottage, the exterior lights come on. Plastic porch furniture is stacked neatly in one corner.

She unlocks the screen door, then the three bolts on the main door of the house. Flips on the lights as she steps inside.

An open living space dominated by a pair of brown couches stretches back into a galley kitchen, with a door on either side. Liz leads Red to the right, drops her bags beside the double bed. Kicks off her heels beside them.

"Shower first, then I've got some antibiotics and pain meds for you."

He nods, still clutching the blanket. Sways on his feet.

She steps into the surprisingly roomy bathroom, green and white tile in a traditional pattern. Turns on the shower to let the water heat.

On a rack under the sink she finds clean towels and washcloths. Beside them is a stack of wrapped bars of soap.

She unwraps one and sets in the shower soap tray, feels the water and adjusts it.

Liz looks around the bathroom, catches sight of herself in the mirror. She removed her makeshift suicide vest in the plane, but her tactical belt and assorted weapons contrast sharply with the elegant fuchsia sheath dress that ends high on her thighs. Her formerly elegant hairstyle hangs forward over her eyes, windblown, making her look as if she's been dragged by it.

Her heavily made up eyes go fierce and bright as she remembers the feel of Red's wrist, the recoil of the pistol as he shot Armando.

His battered hands.

Liz strips off her belt and then unzips and steps out of the dress. Hangs them both on the back of the door, leaving her clad only in her tight black bra and thong.

Red is not going to like this.

But it can't be helped.

She and Auntie Meg are the only ones here.


	7. In The Shower

Red glances sideways as Liz emerges from the bathroom, followed by a promising puff of steam.

She's partly undressed. Is she trying to make him feel more comfortable?

'I'm going to help you in the shower," she says.

Red drops the blanket as her hands tug at it, but wraps his arms around himself, holding fast to the coat.

He shakes his head.

"No, Lizzy, I'll be fine," he whispers. Takes a step toward the bathroom, almost trips over a duffel bag.

Damn. He would be more convincing if he weren't half dead on his feet.

"Red, it's me, or Auntie Meg," says Liz firmly. Just standing there waiting. 

He shakes his head again without looking at her, staring at the open bathroom door. He can hear the shower, imagine the heat of the water. 

Being clean. He never takes for granted the simple pleasure of being clean. This raises it to a whole new level, though.

"Please, Red. She's helping me because I told her I care about you."

Tears rise to his eyes and he blinks them angrily away. Stares down at the carpet as they fall. He can't start weeping. Not now. Not in front of her.

"Let's get it over with, then." 

He shrugs out of the coat, steps into the bathroom, into the heated spray from the small, wall-mounted shower head. Liz steps in behind him, swings the glass door shut. 

"Back or front first?" she asks him.

"Back," he responds, leaning with the heels of his hands on the wall, eyes shut, allowing the water to sluice over his head.

She's slow and careful and thorough with the washcloth, repeatedly stopping to rinse it out and add more soap. His pain level rises but Red just sets his jaw and endures it. Some of his cuts and burns are already infected. He hopes the antibiotic she promised is one of the newer, full spectrum varieties.

"Red?"

The washcloth pauses at the base of his spine.

He swallows hard, spreads his feet as wide as the shower allows, bends forward beneath the spray. He can do this. It will be over soon.

By the time she reaches his feet, he's starting to relax. The warmth of the water, the reassurance of her gentle but slightly impersonal touch have finally started to unwind his nerves.

"Front, now, Red," she says. They shift places in the shower, bodies briefly pressed together. He can't help but notice that her black satin underwear is translucent when wet.

She's so beautiful. Small and spare and deadly.

He braces himself against the shower wall and the door, allows the water to hit him full in the face. His mouth is so raw, his lips cracked and bruised, but the pain feels good. He opens his mouth and lets the water spill in and out as she washes his face and ears, moves down to his neck.

The hood nearly garroted him a few times. He can smell fresh blood as she cleans the wound.

Oh god, he can smell again. And he's not clean yet. The scents are so disgusting he can't believe Liz hasn't made any comment at all. It's almost as if she knows how exactly how horrible this is for him.

Liz switches from the washcloth to soap on her bare hands when she reaches his groin. Her sensitive fingertips clean the many tiny cuts, the raw spots, with exquisite tenderness. She handles him with such confidence, as if somehow she can feel exactly what he's feeling.

Red can't help himself. He opens his eyes to slits, watches her small, sure hands on him for just a moment. Her dark head is bent, wet curls plastered at all angles, so he can't see her face. He stores away the memory, for some unimaginable future day in which he might again indulge in the foolish daydream that he could be more to her than just an informant. A criminal to study. A partner in her fight against the evils of the world.

She switches back to the washcloth for his thighs, his legs, the tops of his feet.

The hot water is cooling. She's timed the shower well.

"All done."

Liz shuts it off, snags a towel and begins patting Red dry.

He stands with his eyes closed and endures it. Sits naked on the towel on the toilet while she dabs the worst of his cuts and burns with antibiotic ointment and then bandages them. His neck feels almost healed once thickly wrapped away from the touch of the air. She takes special care over his fingertips, the pain in each one disappearing once the ointment and gauze is applied.

As she crouches to work on his feet, Red looks down. She's being so meticulous. Perhaps in some way this is healing for her.

He knows Liz well enough by now to be sure that some part of her mind is running back through the operation. Wondering which of his injuries she could have prevented if she had moved faster. Found him sooner.

He doesn't know how or why she came for him. He doesn't want to ask.

"OK, I have clothes for you here," she announces, giving his left foot a pat. "Let me dig them out and you can get dressed and get in bed."

That sounds wonderful.

Red limps into the bedroom and seats himself on the edge of the bed, cradling his bandaged hands in his lap. 

Liz tosses him a loose green cotton t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms in a dark green and blue plaid. 

"Here, let me help."

He's too tired to argue, too ready to sleep. 

Red lifts his arms, feel her pull the shirt carefully over his head. She kneels at his feet and threads them into the legs of the pants, pulls them up when he stands up. Runs her fingers beneath the waistband where it hugs the low curve of his belly, sliding it smooth, adjusting it to his comfort.

Clothing at last. It feels amazing.

Red turns away from her, looks down at the bed.

She leans around him, pulls the covers back.

"Get in bed, and I'll bring you some water and the pills."

He lies down on his back, feels her cover him, then fold the covers up under his chin. For a moment he thinks she's going to kiss him good-night like a child, but instead he hears her footsteps as she strides from the room to greet their hostess as the front door shuts behind her.

"Is there any bottled water?"

"Of course. Let me show you - all the food and drinks are locked in this cabinet."

He's clean, and warm, and safe. Red had resigned himself to degradation and death. He never expected to feel this way again.

Somehow, he's going to have to find a way to talk with Liz. To work with her. To meet her gaze without shame. But that can wait for tomorrow.

He's so ready for those pain pills.


	8. Together, In Bed

Liz sits at the small round dining table as Auntie Meg warms canned stew. She shivered through a brief shower to wash her hair and is now dressed in a smaller size of the night clothes she gave Red, with the addition of a long navy blue fleece robe.

"Honey or jam on your biscuits?" Auntie Meg asks, pulling a tray from the oven.

"Honey, please," Liz answers, her hands clasped around the warmth of her mug of sweet, milky tea. She'd have preferred something stronger, but Auntie Meg doesn't drink.

"Will he need to eat too?" She glances toward the half-closed bedroom door.

Liz shakes her head. Her damp hair is curling into loose ringlets without a blow dryer to smooth it straight.

"No, I think he'll sleep through until morning. I gave him the maximum dose."

Auntie Meg carries the food to the table, sits down and begins to eat.

Between bites they discuss the next stages of their plan. Peter has altered the flight records to show that the plane left in the morning, six hours earlier than it did. He also marked the destination as a different one of Auntie Meg's rental cabins, which could always be attributed later to an error. She has several of them, in various parts of Kenya.

So they have some time before Liz needs to find another place for Red to recuperate. Before she has to fly home and pretend to have been on safari.

Auntie Meg will stay for a few days, then move on to another one of her properties. She regularly inspects them when they are unoccupied for any length of time.

"Lizzie?"

"Coming, Red," she calls back.

Liz gulps down the last bite of her stew and wipes her face on a paper napkin.

"Good night, Auntie Meg and thank you so much."

Liz shuts the door behind her, leaving the room in virtual darkness.

"Lizzie?" Red's voice sounds a little panicky.

"I'm here, Red," she reassures him.

Liz slips off her robe and slides into bed next to Red, reaches out in the darkness to lay her palm on his forehead. No fever.

"Go back to sleep," she whispers, sliding a little closer as she cups the side of his face with her palm for a moment. "I'm here. You're safe."

He shifts restlessly. Murmurs something inaudible. He's still dreaming, not quite awake.

Liz slides her hand down to his chest, pats him very gently, avoiding the bandages that encircle his neck.

"Lizzie?" he whispers. His hand reaches for her, but he whimpers as his fingers make contact.

"I'm here, Red," she says, sliding closer and draping his arm around her. Daringly, she lays her head on his chest, wraps her arms around him. He responds by pulling her closer with a deep sigh of evident contentment. 

"Oh, Lizzie," he whispers. She feels his lips against her hair, another whimper. His mouth is so bruised.

"Shhh, lay still" she whispers. Presses kisses to his chest, pats him softly, soothingly. "Sleep for me, Red. I need to sleep."

"Sleep," he mumbles. 

She's almost too warm, held so close. Of all the times she's imagined what it would be like for Red to hold her in his arms, it was never like this.

She's going to make him well. Keep him safe until he can protect himself again.

Liz can't bear to lose him. Whatever it takes, she now knows she's capable of that, and so much more. Even if this is the only time she rests in the circle of his arms.

Red will be more himself in the morning. She'll take her cues from him. Liz knows from her work on the Mobile Psych Unit that he will need time and space to put himself back together. She's well-trained to support that work, if he will allow her to help.

He's been so quiet, so submissive. She wants the old Red back, with all his arrogance, evasions, and convoluted metaphors, as soon as possible.

She matches her breathing to his and allows herself to slide away into sleep.

***

Red awakens in the early morning, terror screaming through him for an instant until he realizes that Liz is curled tightly against him, her soft hair fanned across his face and shoulder.

Safe. He's safe.

Was that a dream, Liz holding him, kissing his chest?

It must have been. But still, here she is, lying as close as a lover in her chaste pajamas.

She fits perfectly against him, as he always dreamed she would. Not that he's in any condition to do more sleep at her side.

The warmth of her body feels so good. Her hair smells so good. Lizzie is good.

Red blinks, realizes his thoughts are sliding vaguely away beneath the onslaught of the pain pills as the adrenaline of waking in the darkened room recedes.

He loves her. He loves her so much. 

He wants to dream that dream again.

Red closes his eyes and sleeps.


	9. Plans Change

"Elizabeth! Wake up!"

Liz disentangles herself from Red's sleeping embrace and sits up in bed as Auntie Meg flips on the light switch.

"Are you expecting your FBI colleagues today?" she asks Liz sharply.

Liz shakes her head, sits up in bed and rubs her eyes.

"No, why?"

"Peter just rang. He's been monitoring flight plans in this area, and there's a charter all the local CIA use warming up in Nairobi."

"Damn!" 

They discussed contingency plans last night, but more as a matter of form.

It's the chip. If the FBI is on the way, can Dembe be far behind?

"Red?" Liz looks over at Red, to shake him awake.

He's staring up at her with a very strange expression on his face.

Liz lays one hand on the side of his face, tilts her head so their eyes are level.

"Red? I'm so sorry, but we need to get moving again."

He grimaces up at her.

"Not another motorcycle, I trust?" His voice is still so hoarse.

"I gassed up the plane last night," Auntie Meg informs them. "Ten minutes, no more. Oh, and good morning, Ray."

She whirls and is gone, white ponytail swinging loosely behind her.

Liz climbs out of bed, pulls on khakis. Tosses clothing from her duffel bag onto the bed on top of Red.

"Give me a sec and I'll help you dress," she tells him. "There's water and meds next to you."

Liz bends and starts stuffing every trace of their visit, even the damp bloody towels, into the large duffel.

"Lizzie?"

Red's hand is shaking as he tries to lift the water bottle, knocking over the pill bottles.

"Oh, sorry, let me get that."

She opens the bottles of pills, drops antibiotics and pain meds into his open mouth, holds the water to his lips.

"I'll need food soon," he points out, sitting up and swaying on the side of the bed.

Liz hurries to the bathroom, then emerges with her dress, buckling on her tactical belt. She stuffs the dress in the duffel bag, scans the room for any additional items.

"Your turn in the bathroom, I'll see what Auntie Meg has left us to eat."

She pauses in the doorway as Red stands and limps towards the bathroom.

"Do you need help in there too?"

He shakes his head, waves her away.

Rolls stuffed with scrambled eggs and bacon are piled on a plate on the counter.

The pan is already clean and put away.

Liz returns to the bedroom to find Red struggling to undress. He's not making any sound but his breathing catches horribly as he tries to use his hands.

"Here, let me," says Liz. She shakes out the clothing she bought him, helps him undress and redress as quickly as possible. Kneels to slide thick socks and heavy desert boots onto his damaged feet.

She shoves the bottles of meds in his vest pockets and snaps them shut. Tosses their pajamas in the smaller duffel and quickly makes up the bed.

He stands waiting as she loads the duffel bags on her back, scoops up the plate from the kitchen.

Auntie Meg is back, holding the front door for them. She locks it behind them.

"Thirteen minutes, not bad," she comments dryly. She takes the plate of food from Liz and hurries to the plane.

Once they are airborne and Red is eating hungrily, Liz leans forward. 

"What do we do about the chip?" she asks Auntie Meg. None of the scenarios they discussed the previous night are in place yet.

Red sets down his half eaten egg and bacon sandwich.

"Do you want to cut it out?" he asks them. "It's more difficult to remove now, given the scar tissue."

Liz shakes her head. 

"They can't track you while we're airborne."

Oh god. She said they, not we. 

But no one has contacted her. Well, not that the FBI has any of her current phone numbers. Auntie Meg brought her purse from the house, but her personal phone will be long out of charge.

"It's either Dembe, or your Saudi friends, Auntie Meg," says Liz unhappily after a few minutes thought. Red has returned to taking small bites from the sandwich, even though opening his mouth is causing the scabs on his lips to open and bleed.

"Not Dembe." Red shakes his head. "And why the Saudis?"

Auntie Meg laughs.

"The woman I'm thinking of is a personal friend, with a private jet. She and her daughter can make you disappear for as long as you need."

Liz scowls down at her own sandwich, suddenly no longer hungry.

"I suppose I should join the safari?" she responds.

"Yes, Elizabeth. I'll drop you off at the camp first," Auntie Meg confirms. "I know that lodge, and they have a fairly well-maintained airstrip. You will come to the house to say good-bye before you leave Nairobi, won't you?"

"Of course," Liz agrees. "If you can pay off Kanja, I'd appreciate it."

"Oh, I may have a few errands for him," Auntie Meg responds over her shoulder with a smile. "Such an enterprising young man."

"I gather my fate has been decided?" Red asks them, looking from one to the other.

"I'm sorry, Red, but this is the safest choice," says Liz, laying her hand briefly on Red's knee.

He nods in agreement.

"A visit with an old friend, then a long safari. Nothing to connect you with Eastern Sky at all."

He sounds pleased to be rid of her. Or perhaps he just wants her safely out of the way?

Liz doesn't respond, lost in her thoughts.

"We'll be there soon," comments Auntie Meg. "Climb up in front with me, and Ray can lie down under a blanket in back. No reason for anyone to suspect he's in the plane."

Liz leans over the back of the seat and reorganizes her duffel bags so that the smaller of the two holds only her own clothing and none of her weapons. She tosses the bag up front, shakes open the folds of a clean wool blanket and spreads it over Red's lap.

She looks over at him. He's looking down at the blanket.

"Red?"

"Yes, Lizzie?"

He's still not looking at her.

"You're not making this easy, are you?" she complains. They are over the waterhole already, the domed metal roofs of the lodge and cabins shining in the bright sunshine.

"What do you need from me, Lizzie?" he asks in a low voice. "There's nothing I can possibly say that could adequately express my gratitude .."

She swallows hard.

"I'm not asking for your gratitude, Red."

This is impossible. 

She's going to see him again. He's going to recover from this. He has to.

"Final approach, my dear," Auntie Meg cautions her.

Liz stares at him for a long moment. She wants to grab him, hug him, kiss him despite his poor battered mouth.

But any type of aggression, that's the last thing he needs right now.

"Come to me when you're well, Red. Just promise me that."

He glances over at her, glances away again as if something in her expression hurts him.

She needs to go. 

Liz climbs into the front seat, straps herself in for the landing.

Behind her, Red lies down and awkwardly pulls the blanket up over himself with his bandaged hands. She looks back, can't resist reaching over and tugging the blanket just a little higher, to completely cover his head. 

He's free, and safe. And he's going to remain that way. That's what counts, not her foolish desire never to allow him out of her sight again.


	10. Back At Work

Although they receive emails and phone calls leading to the capture of another blacklister, it's more than two months before Raymond Reddington once again graces the task force with his physical presence.

Liz keeps a framed photo of a pride of lions on her desk at work. It's a beautiful shot. She was fearless for those two weeks, taking her camera and the most experienced of the guides, and traveling deep into the game preserve at all hours of the day and night. Spurning the alcohol-fueled social activities of the safari in favor of as much time in the wild as possible.

She's reassured both Dembe and the FBI by the time she leaves Kenya, although with very different stories.

Auntie Meg and Peter drive her to the airport, urge her to visit them again soon. Liz smiles but makes no promises. Her life feels hollow, as if she's poised on the edge on an invisible abyss.

She hasn't heard from Red at all, although that's not unexpected.

***

The Post Office falls silent when Red swaggers in one morning, new hat tilted over his amused, knowing eyes. He's tanned, thinner, visibly rested. His new pin-striped gray suit fits him perfectly. Dembe is similarly well-clothed at his back, his cold eyes warming briefly as they rest on Liz.

She nods at him. She wants to burst into tears.

He's back, gloriously back.

The task force clusters around as Red expounds on his latest theory. Moves photos from one board to the other, draws them all into speculating.

Liz alone hangs back. She wants to be out of Ressler's line of sight, away from Samar's sympathetic gaze.

Most of all, detached from Cooper's tired eyes, huge in his bony face above his wasting frame. Harold Cooper doesn't have long to live. He's donating the time he has to the FBI, to the task force.

At the end of the discussion, Red signals to Liz with his eyes. She shakes her head.

He shrugs, saunters away towards the elevator.

As he too turns to leave, Dembe tosses her a phone. She opens her hands, catches it in mid-air.

"Later," he mouths at her, then they're gone.

***

Red sits on the park bench, waiting. He's wearing every item of clothing the weather warrants, and more. Three piece suit, overcoat, scarf, hat, and gloves. His thick sunglasses hide his eyes.

Will she come?

It seems Lizzie is no more willing to met his eyes now than he is to gaze into hers.

That has to change. Whatever it takes from him.

He can't catch the blacklisters without her.

But he can't bear her pity, either.

Red rises as Liz approaches, a small figure in black, hands deep in the pockets of her long coat. She sits beside him on the bench, not close enough to touch. Staring straight ahead.

"You have something to tell me?" Her voice is clear, indifferent. Only her hands, still thrust deep into her pockets, betray her. If she folded them in her lap, she'd be rubbing her scar within seconds.

"You asked me to come to you," he responds, finding no answers in the pure lines of her profile.

"Are you well?" she asks him. She turns and looks at him skeptically, her eyes searching his face.

He raises his brows.

"Yes?" he responds.

"I want to know," she says. "I need to know."

He swallows hard on the bitter taste rising in the back of his throat. Looks down at his gloved hands, folded in his lap.

"Ask your questions," he responds in a low voice. "All of them. I certainly don't intend to discuss this with you ever again."

From the corner of his eye he can see her nod.

"Are you completely healed?" she asks quietly.

"Yes, except for my fingernails. They take time to re-grow, so I'll be wearing gloves for a time."

"And your blood work?"

This is excruciating. But he's the only one who can answer her questions. 

"Nothing incurable, fortunately. All clean, now."

She breathes out, a little breath that sounds like relief.

He's a bastard. Of course she's been worried, she risked her own life to save him. 

"Lizzie ..." he begins, trying to gentle his tone, which still goes raw whenever he even thinks about what was done to him.

"No ... permanent effects?"

Her ungloved hands are out of her pockets now and she's stroking her scar, staring down at it. 

Red closes his eyes briefly.

"No incontinence. Normal functioning, as far as I can tell."

And didn't that give away just a little too much?

"The Saudis employed an excellent surgeon ..." he goes on, hoping she'll ask about the physician. Red can spout numerous details about plastic surgery, has an easy metaphor on the tip of his tongue.

Liz reaches over and lays her hand lightly over his clasped, gloved hands.

"Do you have anything you want to ask me?" she responds.

Red turns his head, meets her searching blue eyes with an effort.

He wants to know why she came for him. He wants to knows if she pities him, despises him for cooperating with his captors and attempting to stay alive. For what he did. What he allowed his captors to do to him.

He wants to know if they can ever go back to the way they were. Red is almost positive the answer is no, but perhaps they can pretend. Allow this tense space between them to settle back into something close to their normal give and take, over time. A great deal of time.

Red wants time and space and distance until he can mull over the dream of her lying so close beside him, kissing his chest, without an accompanying flash of humiliation.

"No," he says flatly. "So, if that's all?"

He rises, tips his hat, and heads for the waiting car.

***

Liz stares as Red begins to stride away. Really? He has nothing to ask her?

She jumps to her feet, runs after him.

Reaches him just before he crosses the sidewalk to the car, lays her right hand on his coat sleeve. She can see Dembe in the drivers seat.

Red turns his head, his expression cold.

"Lizzie?" he says in a warning tone. "I need to leave. Now."

Her eyes fill with unexpected tears.

"Can I sit in the car with you for a moment?" she begs.

Of course she can't just stand here on the sidewalk, clutching at him.

His mouth moves, a sour expression crossing his face, but he opens the door.

"Get in."

She climbs inside, slides over on the polished black leather seat to make room for him.

"Here." 

Red passes her his pocket handkerchief. She pats at her eyes, trying not to smear her make-up. His handkerchief smells faintly of expensive cologne.

"Lizzie, what do you want from me?" he asks her.

Liz looks forward at Dembe, meets his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

The privacy screen slides into place. 

"Well?" 

Red tilts his head, gives her a questioning look. Almost the same look he's given her in the past, except that there's something different lurking in his eyes. Something that if she didn't know better, she would call fear.

Surely, he must know that he's safe with her. Always.

She sniffs, hard, and for a moment his gaze softens, the warmth in his eyes bringing more tears to her own.

She's making a fool of herself. But they can't just go back to the way they were before. Not now that she's sure.

If Red doesn't want her, she can find some way to live with that. She survived Tom Keen; she can survive being rejected. She just can't live with the uncertainty, the longing.

"Why don't you want to know why I came after you?" she asks him, finally.

Red clears his throat, looks to the side as if he's thinking. Finally he speaks.

"A man crossing a deep, cold, swift-running river must jump quickly from one rock to the next to keep his balance. If one rock is mossy, or unstable, if the man finds himself falling into the torrent, does he blame the rock?"

Red lifts his brows in polite inquiry. 

Liz blinks at him.

"Really?" she says at last. "Because that story tells me nothing. Which is probably what you want."

Red sighs and looks away, out the tinted window on his side of the unmoving car.

"Lizzie, I've answered your questions. What more do you want from me?"

She stares at the back of his head, the tilt of the elegant dark gray fedora. This conversation is going nowhere fast. One of them is going to say something unforgivable if they keep fencing like this.

Better to just get it over with.

Liz pulls out her phone. Texts Cooper that she has a headache and is taking the day off.

"Lizzie?" Red turns his head, watches her texting. She tucks the phone away.

"I took the day off work," she tells him. "So we're going to settle this, one way or another."

"Settle what?"

His eyes are wary, his lips are pinched.

"You and me," she tells him. "So you're going to tell me the truth, and then if I need to go home and cry my eyes out, well, I have plenty of time to do that."

"What?" He leans forward a little. "Lizzie?"

She reaches over and takes his gloved hands gently, mindful of his fingertips. He's not making this easy. No clever words spring to mind, no poetry. Just the simple truth.

"Red, I love you, and I want you, and I need to know if you can ever feel that way about me, too."

"What?" He sounds and looks completely stunned. What did he think, that she was going to ask him some pointed questions about their mysterious past?

This is not going well at all. Liz suppresses the urge to jump out of the car, run away. Pretend she never started this conversation.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Just tell me the truth. I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

"Oh, Lizzie."

Through the tears standing in her eyes, Red's face seems to dissolve into an unfamiliar expression of complete wonder.

He leans forward, touches his lips to hers so gently.

"Yes," he whispers. "Yes. That's exactly, exactly how I feel about you."

She waits, holding her breath, as he leans in for another kiss. She can't believe she's spent so much time watching that mobile, expressive mouth of his, and never guessed how perfectly he kisses. It feels like he's reading her mind.

"Your apartment?" he murmurs.

He is reading her mind. 

"Oh yes, Red. Please." 

Red puts his arm around her and presses the intercom button. Liz lays her head on his shoulder and presses kisses against his chest. His other arm tightens around her and he holds her close as the car pulls away from the curb and into traffic.


End file.
